


My Heart Before I Met You

by BlackMamba



Category: Raising the Bar (TV)
Genre: Character of Color, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-01
Updated: 2010-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-05 14:38:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/42790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackMamba/pseuds/BlackMamba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richard's attempt to make good on his promise leads to something more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Heart Before I Met You

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is set after the events of the series finale which ended with Roz being a new mama and Richard angling for a babysitting gig/dinner date. Since the show is canceled I thought I might as well give him one. Thanks to tokenblkgirl for the awesome beta!

Roz was always sure she’d be a mother. She knew this at eight years old, trained with baby dolls in preparation.  Mothers were her favorite people. She’d see them at grocery stores, picking out ingredients for their children’s meals, pieces of some recipe they’d cut out of _Women’s Day_ or maybe thought of on their own.

 

Mothers healed. Mothers saved you when the walls caved in. And when she lost hers at sixteen years old, Roz was sure there was a hole somewhere, that time itself had a piece missing because her mother was gone and things couldn’t just stay the same. That’s how precious they were. That’s who Roz is going to be. Even at forty years old and brushing off the notion at cocktail parties, she still hopes.  This is her dirty little secret. She can never give up completely.

 

\--

 

Richard has never cooked a real meal in his life. Boiled hotdogs yes, and a few breakfast dishes (eggs, canned biscuits) but for the most part he’s a deli guy, cut salads with rice already prepared, chicken breasts in a package and raw vegetables on the side.  Food is for fuel, not pleasure, unless he’s eating out and then it’s for the culinary experience, the thrill of trying something new. 

 

Roz is more of a comfort food person. She hates tall dishes, entrees stacked high on a plate more for effect than utility. She doesn’t want to decipher what type of meat is on her plate. “Dinner should feel like home,” she says. “That’s how it comforts.”

 

He watches a week of Food Network. Alton Brown confuses him and Rachel Ray kills his appetite completely, so he tries a cookbook instead.

 

She agrees to Friday night after he assures her that he’ll spend New Years Eve alone if not cooking for her and James. The truth is he has plenty of invitations, three parties in the apartment building alone. But she either believes him or doesn’t care.  He hears James babbling in the background. She laughs and asks if he’s sure it’s what he wants.

 

“You know what they say. It’s how you’ll spend the rest of the year.”

 

\--

 

Richard is good at fixing things. At nine years old, he would constantly search for things that needed repair, a puzzle or a deck of cards, scattered, waiting to be put back together. In high school he was an all-star athlete, excelled in shop class and his science lab. He won first place at the Young Inventers Convention. He’s good with his hands. At eighteen he told his father he wanted to be a carpenter. Richard Sr. thought he meant an architect and left brochures for Ivy League programs in his bedroom.

 

He went to law school because it was easier (this is his dirty little secret) but he didn’t give a shit about the law before it was in front of him. And even then it was an abstract thing, just another puzzle to piece together. He would build cases instead of bookshelves, gather evidence instead of cards, but it didn’t live for him, didn’t _truly _mean something until he walked into Roz’s office.

 

\--

 

She isn’t nervous. This is what Roz tells herself as she tries on another sweater, a different pair of jeans. That she owes him a nice evening and black is too formal for dining in; that Richard’s a sweet guy and the purple sweater doesn’t fit like it used to. Prints are too loud, a jumper too frumpy.  She settles on a green shift and decides it’s a nice night with a friend.

 

James is fussy, as though he’s sensed her agitation and doesn’t know what to do with it. Roz puts him in a high chair and gives him a bottle of milk. He stares at her while he drinks. She wonders if he’s thinking of his mother, the real one, not this imposter plying him with store-bought formula. His eyes are wide and questioning. _Who are you? Why are you feeding me? When am I going home?_

 

The doorbell rings and she wipes damp palms on her dress. She shouldn’t be nervous. Richard’s smile is too big when she answers the door.

 

“Hey.” He lifts a bag of groceries. “I’ve got provisions.” He winces like this isn’t what he’d planned to say. It’s cute; on a guy with his looks and pedigree, honestly sexy. That’s always been the problem.

 

“Come in.” She opens the door wider. He’s wearing a blue shirt. It matches his eyes. “Make yourself at home.”

 

\--

 

When Roz was in law school she fell in love with her professor. His name was Hugh Raymond and he had the warmest laugh she’d ever heard. It was the kind you could feel, it warmed you all over like a shot of brandy. They would lie in bed for hours, talking and laughing, the sound making her shiver. And then it was over.

 

She can’t remember why, only that something changed between them. He laughed less. She stopped being funny. And by the time she graduated, they barely spoke to each other, tried to avoid eye contact in the halls.

 

What she remembers most is those midnight talks. When she’s alone in her apartment, she thinks of things she used to say, a young girl’s take on life that makes her cringe. She wonders if he’s changed too. She’s sure he’s found someone to laugh with.

 

\--

 

“You brought champagne?” Roz lifts the bottle from the paper bag. Richard looks unsure and glances behind her, at James playing in his high chair.

 

“Yeah, I thought…” He shrugs. “Well it’s New Years, so I thought maybe you’d want some.”

 

“I do.” She sets it on the counter. “After the baby’s asleep.”

 

“Right,” he says quickly, and pulls the bottle closer. “Yeah, of course, you don’t want to drink around him.”  He’s stiff and formal. She touches his arm and it flexes beneath her fingers.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

Richard looks at her hand and she pulls it back. She has to stop doing that. “I’m fine,” he says, with a hesitant smile. “I just…” He looks at the food, the line of ingredients he’s placed along the counter. “Need a colander.”

 

He looks stricken, as though he’s just confessed to stealing her purse.

 

\--

 

Richard’s first girlfriend was Amanda Lakehouse, two years younger with the reddest hair he’d ever seen. Her family had a summer estate near his in Cape Cod and they would dig for sea shells, only white because she didn’t like any other colors. This is how he showed his love for her, hours spent in the hot sun, discarding anything that wasn’t perfect. And by the time it ended, when the furniture was covered with white sheets, the shutters closed and boarded, he would spread them under her window, a fan of white conches glittering in the moonlight.

 

Her family sold their house and he never saw her again. At fourteen years old it didn’t feel like some terrible injustice, just one more thing that bent to the will of parental whims. Like whether you’d get a new bike that summer or a pair of flippers for the pool.  But he never digs for shells anymore.  Even now, on the odd beach trip with his friends, he leaves them buried in the sand.

 

\--

 

There are eight ingredients in Richard’s recipe for fettuccine Alfredo. He’s not sure if this matters, but it made shopping less intimidating. The side dish is a simple salad, something he’s made countless times before. He considers doing that first. Maybe she’ll see the neatly cut cucumber and be lulled into a false sense of security.

 

Roz’s kitchen is neat and organized, just like her office. Everything is within arms reach. His apartment was decorated by his mother’s friend, a part-time interior designer that offered a blow job after he’d picked out his curtains. It caught him off guard, the way those things always did. He’d explained that he wasn’t interested in dating right now and she’d looked at him like a disabled child.

 

“I think James is sleepy.”

 

Roz takes him out of the high chair and his arms latch onto her neck. He blinks at Richard, eyes darting down to the food and back up again. He’s not fooled either. “Do you need help,” Richard asks. “Putting him down I mean?” He’s trying to escape.

 

“No, I’ve got it.” Roz kisses James’s cheek. She’s pulled her hair into a ponytail on top of her head. Her neck is bare, graceful.  “He fusses at first, but I sing to him sometimes. It helps.” She turns to face him, jostling James in her arms. “Will you be okay here?”

 

Richard lifts a wooden spoon, his sword, the meal his battle. “I’ve got it covered.”

 

He reaches for a lemon as she walks away. The recipe tells him to zest it, but he isn’t sure what that means. He pulls out his phone and toggles to the internet.

 

Roz is singing. He reads the definition three times before he realizes he’s supposed to grate the peel.

 

\--

 

The people she works with have no idea how much they mean to her. She tries to keep a distance, maintain that professional face. She’s there to hold them accountable in addition to offering guidance. They respect her. Jerry treats her like his mother, seeking her approval with the eagerness of a twelve year old boy. Sometimes he’s her favorite.

 

Bobby’s the nineteen year old daughter, fumbling through her first year in college. Roz imagines how she was back then, humoring her friend’s gossip about celebrities and football players. She was probably lonely and grateful to meet people with opinions. She dated men with large egos, too evolved to think slapping a woman around reflected badly on their character.

 

Richard is her old soul. The first time she met him, he pulled out her chair and refused to sit until she was safely stowed behind her desk.  He wears cufflinks and carries his father’s watch. He talks about legacies the way others discuss family reunions. He is the kindest man she’s ever met. He listens to Dean Martin and Ella Fitzgerald. There are moments when she’s sure he sees right through her.

 

\--

 

Roz returns to the smell of scorched cream and lemon. Richard is bent over his phone, his hair damp with sweat and the shirt she’d admired is now splattered with Alfredo sauce. This is one of those moments she’ll remember and smile.

 

“Ah, you’re back.” He stirs the pot and its contents slosh over the sides. “Dammit.” He wipes it with a paper towel. “Sorry, I’m making a mess.”

 

“That’s what cleaner is for, here.” She reaches for her apron, a purple and white striped thing hanging on a hook. “I know it’s not very manly but you look like you could use it.”

 

“Thanks.” He takes it from her hands and looks down at his shirt. “I think it’s too late though.”

 

“Give it me.” She holds out her hand. “I’ll wash it so it doesn’t stain.”

 

“You don’t have to do that.” He’s blushing.

 

“I know,” she says and touches the sleeve. “It’s too nice to ruin, come on.” She wants to get him away from the stove. The sauce is rippling at the top, a thick brown skin forming over the mixture. She wonders if it’s too late to call the Indian place on Third. 

 

Richard reaches for the top button and stops after it’s unfastened. “I uh…” He glances down at her hand, her lips. “I’m not wearing an undershirt.”

 

Of course he isn’t. He’s young and fit. Probably likes the cotton against his skin. “Oh.” She retracts her hand, balls her fingers into a fist. “Okay, well I might have something. A t-shirt maybe, I buy them big.” She points to the hall. “The laundry room is that way. I’ll bring it to you.”

 

\--

 

 

With Roz it feels like a handicap, his looks, the attention, they’re excuses to keep him at arms length. He’s too attractive, too rich, and too young for her to bother. She calls him Richie and there’s a chasm between them, her large oak desk and his cubical just outside her office walls.

 

But sometimes it’s different. They’ll be working on a case, alone in the office with dim lamp light and cold pizza. She’ll look at him, _really_ look at him, and say something about her day. Like how she hates those tuna sandwiches they sell on the cart downstairs. He’ll say, “me too,” and think, _this is the way it should be. This is us if you could see me._

 

\--

 

The t-shirt is old and faded; something she’d stolen from an old boyfriend most likely. There’s a band on the front she’s never heard of. Roz walks down the hall and stops to check on James. He’s sleeping through the night now; a tacit approval of his new home.

 

Richard is standing in the washroom. The door is ajar and she can see his arm, the back pocket of his pants.  It’s jarring, having a man in her home. Her apartment feels smaller, too feminine though she’s never thought of herself that way. She knocks before she pushes the door open.

 

“Hey,” she says and brandishes the t-shirt. “This should fit I think.”

 

His shirt is partially unbuttoned. She can see his skin, tanned and the dark intention of muscle, his stomach. His chest is bare which she’s never preferred. But on him it seems right.

 

She’s staring.

 

“Roz.”

Richard touches her hand, her wrist. He pulls her closer, gently, so she can resist if she wants to. She doesn’t.

 

“You can’t cook.” She meets his eyes. He touches her cheek, her chin, the underside of her lower lip. “Can you.”

 

“No.” His voice is strained, like he’s holding his breath. She touches his chest, fingertips against his heart. It’s racing. “No I can’t.”

 

\--

 

Roz clings to him as he brings her once; twice. Her body is his puzzle. Her skin is salt and bitter lotion.

 

He loses himself and nearly tells her, the words teetering on his tongue. But he catches them, stops the tumble before he ruins it.

 

He doesn’t want this to end.

 

\--

 

Richard’s body is heavy on hers, his legs endless, feet hanging over the edge of her bed. He’s kissing her shoulder, her neck, a lazy exploration that makes her shiver. He moves between her legs and asks if she’s ready. He wants to start again.

 

Roz touches his nape and he looks up, meets her eyes. She traces his lips, taps the crease until he parts them. She touches his tongue. He licks the nail bed as he thrusts deep. She’s inside him. He’s inside her.  Midnight has come and gone.

 

\--

 

Roz lost her first case because she wasn’t paying attention. She was twenty-four years old with thirteen months of experience. Her client was a drug dealer with three priors and an attitude that made you wonder why anyone bothered.

 

She missed a statement, something that could have reduced his jail time. It didn’t hit her until he was sentenced, three years that could have been six months.

 

Now she’s always careful. The smallest detail could be everything, someone’s life. She never lets herself forget that.


End file.
